“The
Indian Agency. I am here to help the Utes make their way in the new world.”

“What
do you know about the ICE machine?”

“Nothing!
I swear!”

“Don’t
feed me that crap!” Dodger lifted Critchlow and slammed him against the Rhino.
“You mentioned it by name to the doc not fifteen minutes ago. Now tell me what
you know.”

“I
know about as much as anyone else.”

“How
‘bout you enlighten someone not from around here?”

“The
Utes like for folks to think they freeze their vegetables by some kind of
tribal magic, but everyone within fifty miles knows it’s done by some kind of
machine. You can hear the fool thing running when they turn it on.”

“But
you knew the name of it. Specifically. How?”

“I
overheard some of the tribe talking about it when I first arrived. They thought
I couldn’t understand them, but I took the time to learn a bit of the language
when I was assigned this position. Apparently, none of the other agents could
speak a lick of it. I asked Jones about the machine, and he was so pleased I took
the time to learn his tongue that he told me everything. I swear that’s how I
know so much.”

“Who
else did you tell?”

Critchlow
looked genuinely offended by the question. “What?”

“Who
else?”

“Nobody.”

Dodger
growled, baring his teeth at the anxious man.

“All
right,” Critchlow said. “I reported it to my superiors at the agency.”

Dodger
pushed away from Critchlow in disgust. He took a few steps back, seething with
rage. “Why would you do that?”

“Because
it is my job.”

“I
thought you were here to help them.”

“I
am, Mr. Dodger. And I will.” Critchlow brushed down his shirt and stood a bit
taller as he explained, “I have come to help them farm and build proper houses
and educate their children. It’s my job to help their kind adapt to life on the
reservation, as opposed to the mindless wandering they are used to. I’ll show
them how to settle down and live a proper, clean life.”

“I
like how you word it so carefully. Makes it sound like the first order of
business wasn’t to take away their only means of support.”

“No,
sir. My first order of business was to do my job. I reported a highly dangerous
piece of equipment to my superiors.”

“You
have to understand, those natives aren’t prepared to deal with that machine. They
need help with it. They think it is a blessing. That your professor was sent by
one of their gods to help them in their hour of need. They think its runs on
magic.”

“How
do you know it doesn’t?” Dodger asked. “Because, from what I hear, it’s pretty
damned close to magic.”

Critchlow
lifted his chin to look down his nose at Dodger. “I don’t believe in such
nonsense. There is no such thing as magic. Only the power of man, the power of
nature and the power of God Himself.”

Dodger
snorted again. “Catholic or Episcopalian?”

“Presbyterian,
actually.”

“Preacher
man?”

“Yes.
How did you know?”

“It’s
a knack.” Dodger grinned a moment before he snatched his knife from his belt, leaped
toward the man and pressed the tip of the blade to the tender spot just under Critchlow’s
chin. “I don’t care if you’re second cousin to the Pope, you have five seconds
to tell me who you work for and what you’re doing here, or so help me, I will
cut the truth out of your throat.”

A
look of terror came over the man, and Dodger couldn’t decide if he was playing
at it or was genuinely frightened.

“Tell
me who you work for,” Dodger said. “Now!”

Trembling,
Critchlow remained silent. Dodger counted down his threatened five seconds to
himself. Those seconds passed slowly, ticking away with an aching dread. In the
silence, the sounds of playful laughter rose from somewhere in the background. It
occurred to Dodger that the pair of lovers must’ve set up the portable forge on
the opposite side of the train. The murmuring sounds of their enjoyment,
punctuated by the occasional giggle from Lelanea, did nothing to help Dodger’s
rotten mood. There he stood, in the late spring afternoon, one hand white to the
knuckles as he twisted Critchlow’s collar in his shaking fist, the other armed
and ready to lay open the man’s throat.

“Time’s
up,” Dodger said. “You got any last words you’d like to get off of your chest?”

“Dodger?”
Feng asked.

“What?”
Dodger asked, refusing to take his eyes off of his prey.

“Who’s
your friend?”

Letting
up on the blade, Dodger gave Critchlow a good hard shake. “Go on. Tell him.”

“C-C-C-Critchlow,”
Critchlow stammered.

“John
J. Critchlow? Feng asked.

Critchlow
flinched at the sound of his own name. “You know me?”

“You
know him?” Dodger asked, almost at the same time.

“I
know of him,” Feng said. He stepped
off the train and joined Dodger beside the Rhino. “You’re with the Indian
Agency, aren’t you?”

Critchlow’s
eyes went wide with the joy of a man snatched from the gallows at the last
possible moment. “Yes! Yes, that’s me. Tell him who I am. Tell this crazy man
to let me go! Please!”

“Let
up on him, Dodger,” Feng said. “He’s one of the good guys.”

With
a disgusted sigh, Dodger released his grip, allowing Critchlow to slide away.

Critchlow
grabbed his throat as he backed away, glaring at Dodger. “He was going to kill
me.”

“Dodger?”
Feng asked. “Nah, he wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

“Not
unless it was a particularly annoying fly,” Dodger said. He thought a moment,
sure he had heard that somewhere before, but he couldn’t remember where.

“How
do you know me?” Critchlow asked.

Feng
shrugged. “I read the Agency newsletter.”

“But
we don’t have a newsletter.”

“Really?
Then what have I been reading all this time?”

Dodger
chuckled. He couldn’t help it.

“You’re
insane,” Critchlow said. He looked up to the Sleipnir. “All of you.” The man
wandered off a few feet before he fell to his knees and clasped his hands
together. Eyes closed, he raised his face to the heavens in an attitude of
silent prayer.

Dodger
nodded to Feng. “You’re looking better.”

“Just
needed a good nap,” Feng said. He stretched as if cracking his back. “That’s
gonna take some getting used to.”

“What?”

“Sleep.
Been a while since I needed that.”

“I
want to know, but I am not going to ask.”

“That
is very wise of you.”

“How’s
Sarah?”

“Still
out of it.” Feng stretched again, then winced as some joint popped loud enough
for Dodger to hear.

“You
should take it easy.”

Feng
eyed Dodger. “I should say the same about you.”

“Why?”

“Because
I just came out here to find you ready to slice open that poor man’s throat.”

“You
don’t understand.” Dodger sheathed his blade and leaned against the Rhino.
Through the open windows of the meeting cab, he could just make out the form of
Lelanea on the other side of the car, where she stooped over the portable
forge. The excessive heat of the thing left her image wavering in the afternoon
sun, like some gorgeous mirage. “I thought he was someone else.”

“You
mean you thought he worked for someone else.” Feng sighed as he parked his
lanky frame on the edge of the Rhino next to Dodger. “Not everyone is a bad
guy, Dodger.”

“Then
who is he?” Dodger asked. “Really?”

“He’s
just who he says he is. John J. Critchlow, member of the Indian Agency assigned
to maintain the Uintah Tribal Reservation starting in the year of his Lord
1871.”

“How
do you know about him?”

Feng
grinned and scratched his neck, a gesture of embarrassment if Dodger ever saw
one. In a near whisper, Feng said, “Because I may have cheated.”

“Cheated?”
Dodger eyed Feng for a second before he whispered, “You read about all of this,
didn’t you? In the … you know … tomorrow.”

“Bingo.”
Feng chuckled as he shook his head. “I know it’s a lousy idea, but I couldn’t
resist. The last time we were here, it was such a disaster, I thought picking
up a bit of Ute language would help out should we ever pass this way again. In
the process, I may have sort of kind of read a bit about the reservation’s
history.”

“And?”

“It
isn’t pretty.”

“That’s
no surprise. The U.S. government seems to take a special delight in breaking
treaties with these folks. I’m shocked they gave the natives a space to live at
all.”

“You
have no idea. And don’t bother asking for more details, because these lips are
sealed on the matter. It would just break your heart anyway.”

Dodger
reckoned it would. He’d never had a personal problem with the native
population, but he did take offense at the way his fellow westerners treated
the red man like an inferior race. Still, there was a season for everything,
and Dodger didn’t have time to take up the natives’ cause right now.

Maybe
he would find time later.

If
there was a later.

“All
right, then, what is so special about him?” Dodger asked as he thumbed at the
agent, still on his knees, praying up a storm.

“I
know this seems hard to believe,” Feng whispered, “but he’s the only one who
ever cared about them, Dodger. The average agent comes and goes from this place
year by year. Some stay as little as a few weeks before giving up on the
natives. But that man,” Feng paused to nod at Critchlow, “that man will stay
here for twelve years, Dodger. Twelve long and hard years. It won’t be easy,
and I am sorry to say it won’t be a success. But he will keep trying and keep
trying, and even though he and the Utes will keep failing, that man won’t give
up on them. In the end, he’ll be forced out due to politics and greed. After
that …” Feng shrugged away the rest of the explanation.

Dodger
took a long, silent look at the preacher man. Could it be true? Could Critchlow
care for the natives as much as he claimed? “I would never have guessed as
much.”

“Even
the most unassuming man can do great things, Dodger. And speaking of assuming,
you can’t assume everyone we run into works for that mutt.”

“I
don’t think he works for Rex.”

“You
think he’s working for your old bosses?”

“Not
directly.” Dodger nodded to the praying man. “But if he told anyone in Washington about the ICE
machine, then I guarantee they know.”

“You
think they’ll come for it.”

“I’m
surprised they aren’t here already.” He shouted to the preacher man, “Hey, you!
When are they coming?”

Critchlow
looked to Dodger, but remained on his knees. “Who?”

“Your
bosses. When are they coming?”

Critchlow’s
jaw slackened, his mouth falling open in surprise. He scrambled to his feet and
took a few steps toward Dodger. “How did you know about that?”

“Like
I said, it’s a knack. When?”

“Tomorrow,
late in the afternoon.”

“That
soon?” Dodger hissed. “What about the buffalo?”

“I
haven’t had time to report the appearance of the buffalo.”

“Good,”
Dodger said. “Maybe we can hide them before your bosses arrive. And keep
our mouths shut about them.”

“Is
that a good idea?”

“Yes,”
Dodger growled. “It’s a fantastic idea.”

“Of
course,” Critchlow said. “Whatever you say.”

“Can
we stop them from taking the ICE machine?” Feng asked.

“Take
it?” Critchlow asked. He gave a soft titter. “No, you’re mistaken. They aren’t
coming to take it. They’re sending some men to help the Utes learn how to
properly operate it.”

“I
like it better the way he says it,” Feng said.

“It’s
his job to make things sound acceptable,” Dodger said.

“It’s
the truth,” Critchlow said. “They aren’t going to take the machine.”

Dodger
shouted over the pitiful excuse, “The U.S. government is coming to collect the
ICE machine by force, tomorrow, and you couldn’t find the time to tell the
people you are supposed to be protecting?”

“Dodger,”
Feng warned. “I know how it looks, but I swear, this man really is on their
side.”

Critchlow
nodded furiously. “I assure you that I only want what is best for the
reservation. Even if the government is coming to take it, which I doubt they
are, in the long run, it might be for the best. The natives will be much better
off without the burden of the machine.”

“I
couldn’t agree more,” Dodger said. “That gives us less than a day to get this
done.”

“Get
what done?”

Dodger
closed the gap between himself and the man, reaching out to pull Critchlow to
him, close enough to smell the man’s sweat and fear. “You’re going to help me
explain to Jones why he has to convince his people to dismantle the ICE machine
before your bosses get their grubby little hands on it.”

Critchlow
nodded, though Dodger could sense an overwhelming tension in the man’s muscles.